


The Taste of Smoke

by umbrella_half



Category: Hard Core Logo (1996)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-16
Updated: 2011-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-20 11:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrella_half/pseuds/umbrella_half
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Synaesthetic, Dylan Thomas-esque piece. <i>What can he do when Joe comes back? What did he do?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Taste of Smoke

He remembers when Joe's eyes were grey-blue, the taste of smoke. It's the first thought when Pipe tells him, when Pipe says "Joe's dead." It takes a while to come to him, because all he can think of for a long time is nothing. Nothing. He thinks of nothing. No thoughts are thought. And then the blue-taste of the look in Joe's eyes. Fuck.

But then Joe doesn't have smoke-eyes, with the blood-shot whiskey-coke-smoke fire in them. They're just black, this time. Black and vast and metallic, some fucked-up feedback sound. And Joe has wings. Real, honest-to-God (Is God honest? Would you be honest to God?) wings, with white feathers. He smells the same. The ratty sweater and the leather jacket feel the same, smell the same. Warm leather and warmer fabric and sweat and skin and whiskey and smoke. He talks the same shit as ever he did too, winding and weaving and wheezing his way through an idea. He's all flashes of genius and bawdy stories. He uses the words 'cunt' and 'motherfucker' like a priest speaks of the Virgin Mary. And the devil.

What can he do when Joe comes back? What did he do? He punched him. He hit him. He buried himself, his face in the fucker's neck and held on. It's Joe. He can smell it. Him. He can see him. And common sense and reason can go and fuck itself.

But Joe has wings. Wings. Even for Joe, that's not normal. And Joe was a strange guy. Hot and cold and no plans, no concrete, realistic ambitions. Which Billy guessed was fine, except it didn't get you anywhere. It got you bumming smokes off kids and cheap booze. If you sold out, you got to eat and you got to drink and you got to fuck the pretty girls and boys. If you sold out. Because an empty belly never inspired him. But Joe didn't care. Joe fucking ate his pride, he rolled it up and stuck it in his mouth and set fire to it and inhaled, his tongue darting out to taste the smoke.

Billy thought that punk rock didn't give a fuck for any kind of idealism.

The night after he comes back, Joe murmurs in his ear. All soft things, sweet things - lyrics they wrote, lines from psalms or high-school poetry that Billy's forgotten. Joe touches him with blunt fingers and tries to look him in the eye, tries to look at him when they kiss, before and after. Nothing but those big, black eyes – it creeps Billy out, raises the hairs on the back of his neck. Joe quickly smoothes them down, keeps kissing him. Looking at him.

“Joe,” he says. “Joe…”

“I’m here now. I’m here,”

 _It’s not too late,_ he thinks. _We’re here. But he’s dead._

“How…?”

“Isn’t this enough?”

“But,”

“Dammit, Billiam,”

Then Joe reaches forward and touches his face and kisses him.

“But,”

“Shut up, Billy,”

“No. No, Joe,” And he’s angry. Because this isn’t Joe. This isn’t right. His fingers are too careful and his eyes are the wrong colour and he has wings. Soft, white wings. “Fuck you, Joe. Fuck all this.”

And he stands up and walks out into the twilight, and he smokes and fumes.

And that night, and the next night, and the next, Joe comes back. He sits and talks to Billy, he bums his smokes and flicks the butts out of the windows and laughs, grins at him. Kisses him again, melting kisses like liquid vocals and soft electric guitar. Joe never played that kind of music.

“Who are you?” He asks, over and over. “Who are you?”

“It’s me, it’s me. It’s Joe. Joe Dick. Fucking Joe Dick.”

“But you’re dead,” Billy says. Matter-o-fact. “You’re dead, Joe. Are you an angel? You’ve got the wings.”

Joe snorts, blowing smoke out of his nose, and grinning. “You’re crazy, Billiam.”

“What are you?” Billy’s not smiling anymore. Billy’s not happy. Joe’s eyes aren’t bloodshot in the smoke.

“Come with me,” Joe says. His voice is gentle, all soft harmonics. “Come with me, Billy. It’ll be you and me again. Dick and Talent, Joe and Billy. Just like always. C’mon…”

He stretches out a hand, every ring still in place, but his nails not bitten anymore. Not his Joe. _And even if it was,_ he thinks. _Even if it was, would I?_


End file.
